Left 4 Dead 2fort
by Aja Aeris
Summary: Behind every disaster there is a broken chain of command, a miscommunication, and a simple mistake, and there is always a difference between those responsible and those held accountable. Rated for language, violence.


...

-TWO WEEKS AFTER FIRST INFECTION-

September, 1968

Union Pacific Docking & Loading Station

San Francisco, California

4:17 am

...

The second hand was nearly as lethargic as he was, swinging 'round the clock face in an ever-slowing circle. Scott Davis watched it idly, doing his best not to drift off to sleep, wondering if the batteries were dying. He'd always sort of assumed that the clock, like everything else in the station, would continue to run as it always had, never straying from routine, endlessly marching to the mechanical beat. He wondered who in Maintenance he would talk to about getting the clock checked out, who was in charge of that. These days, nothing was more important than accountability. Somebody was accountable for everything; for the rubber stamps they used on their forms, for filing the paperwork, for overseeing the timetables, for deciding how long their breaks were. Someone was accountable for each department, and for this branch of the company, and for the company altogether. For all the companies, and all the departments, from Coca-Cola to the Food and Drug Administration. For the food they ate, the water they drank. For the way ideas were spread, for the War in 'Nam, for the moral sewer America was going into…hell, even those damn hippies had to have a leader. Somebody was responsible for that. Somebody was _always_ responsible.

Scott Davis didn't know who was in charge, but like most people he did know two things: It wasn't him, and when he found out who it was, he'd like to give them a piece of his mind.

4:20 am, and his break was over. Better get back to work, before whoever it was that was in charge of him paid him a visit and gave him a piece of their mind. He sighed, chugging the black sludgy remains of his delegated mug of company coffee before dragging himself out of the armchair and heading out of the break room. He didn't bother closing the door, despite the sign politely reminding him to; damn thing didn't shut properly anyway. Somebody should talk to Maintenance about that too…not him, though, he had enough on his plate already. He was too tired for this…He didn't want to admit to himself that he was getting, well…older, but he couldn't help but envy the paper-pushers. They had a nice cushy job with nice cushy armchairs; he only had a nice cushy armchair for about ten minutes a night, and then it was back to hauling crates here and there while the paper-pushers looked everything over and yelled at him to stack the boxes neatly. Damnit, this wasn't an easy job; Mann Co. alone sent out four or more boxcars of crates per shipment, and that was just to that little dugout they called a fortress in Nevada! What in the blue blazes did ANYBODY need so many damn crates for?

But it wasn't his job to ask what was _in_ the boxes, he thought bitterly to himself, slicking his graying hair back out of his face as he clambered down the stairs. Somebody _else_ was responsible for knowing what was in the crates. He was only responsible for loading and unloading them.

He could hear the shouting before he got to the end of the stairwell. Steve Burell was waiting for him down by the tracks, having a conniption and arguing loudly with a paper-pusher. As usual. It was a cold day in hell when Burell wasn't having a conniption over something or other. Of all the co-workers he could have had at this job, on the graveyard shift at that, of _course_ he got stuck with the OCD nutcase. Scott sighed, adjusting his belt, and resigned himself as he walked over and pulled Steve away from the gentleman he was harassing. "S'amatter, Steve-o?"

Steve recoiled. He hated being called Steve-o, and he _knew_ Davis did it just to annoy him. Not missing a beat, he went right back into his tirade. "And speaking of tardy, look who finally showed up! Enjoy your nap, princess? Some of us were down here WORKING, you know!"

Davis had lived through 25 years of working with Steve, and remained unperturbed. "It's 4:20. I was watchin' the clock, Steve-o. Now what's the problem?"

"It was 4:20 ten minutes ago! It's 4:30 now, and THIS is the problem!" Steve spat, gesturing with both arms to the empty docking station beside them. Scott peered over the edge and looked at the tracks; nothing seemed to be out of place. All the rails were aligned properly, lights were on…He looked at the paper-pusher, who shrugged.

"Looks like it's workin' fine. Whassamatter with it?"

Steve sighed insufferably and rolled his eyes. "Notice anything MISSING, Davis?" Another quick glance between the paper-pusher and the tracks revealed nothing, and Steve's patience finally wore out. "The TRAIN, Davis! The TRAIN is not here! It is 4:30 and there is no TRAIN! And Mr. Clipboard here doesn't know a damn thing about it! Now, who do you think the management is going to roast over this? Here's a hint, it ain't Mister Argyle Tie over here!" Burell shot the man another nasty look. "And he will not contact the higher management, because he says, he says he doesn't know who's in charge! What kind of bullsh-"

"Well, look, maybe the train's just late," Scott attempted to placate his rampaging co-worker. To his dismay, this only made Steve angrier.

"Late! LATE! The train CAN'T be late, Davis, are you some kind of brain-damaged!" he shouted, going purple in the face. Before Davis could offer a retort, Steve went off again. "The trains are AUTOMATED, Davis! They are driven by computers! High-tech shiny gizmos from that APSCI place, didn't you read the damn memo? Why do you think we're on such strict timetables here! The trains CAN'T be 'late,' unless they're damn BROKE, and we didn't get a call reporting any problems from the last station!"

"We didn't get _any_ calls from the last station-" the paper-pusher interjected, but Steve cut him off again.

"So if the train is BROKE, that means that all the cargo on-board is liable for theft, damage, all kinds of problems, and it's the company's job to insure the shipments, and that's assuming the clients don't sue, god help us all. So the company loses money, and that means its coming out of OUR paychecks! And, that also means, one of US has to go find who's accountable for this and report it to-"

A sharp whistle blast from further down the depot interrupted his rant, and the three men jumped. Davis smiled at his own tomfoolery, putting an arm around Steve's shoulders and turning him to look. "See there, Steve-o? There's your train. She's just a little late, is all. Everything's fine."

Sure enough, there was the train pulling into the station: OPR 500, GE 80-tonner, a small little black and yellow beauty pulling her nine cars behind her. But there was something wrong; the normal hop, skip and jump rhythm of her cylinders at work was being accompanied not only by the steady thudding of the cars as they were pulled along, but by the screech of metal on metal, and sparks were flying across the concrete further down the docking station. Workers were panicking and the hiss of fire extinguishers could be heard over the echoing yells and the screech of the train. Steve let out a strangled cry and ran off to see what was wrong with his beloved train; confused, Scott ran after him.

The yelling had died into hushed whispers as the train came to a complete stop in the station, and by the time they had run the length of the first five cars, Scott and Steve were without words as well. The rear four cars of the train had been mostly destroyed. Not just destroyed, but…

"They're smashed flat," murmured Scott, and Steve nearly sobbed. The cars were bent, twisted, like crumpled aluminum foil. Bits of glass marked where once there might have been windows, the paint scratched and ripped off, bullet holes dotting the walls of the car that hadn't been flattened. And somehow, Scott very much doubted that the red that was splattered liberally across parts of the cars was a new coat of paint. Now that he looked, the front five cars had hardly fared better, aside from being mostly intact. There was agitated murmuring all along the track.

"What happened here?"

"Isn't the previous stop some kinda military base?"

"Holy god, someone get the Management down here!"

"Was there a fight?"

"Even if there was, why're they _squashed_ like that?"

"The hell is that smell?"

"Did a bomb go off? Is it safe?"

"What if there's-"

"Hey, shut up a sec!" someone down the tracks yelled. The room fell silent, save for the creaking groans of the crates and machines and the hissing of so many engines' pistons. "Anyone else hear that?"

Scott elbowed Steve hard, hissed at him to quit his bawling. He wasn't the only one crying; soft sniffles and sobs could faintly be made out over the noise of the depot.

"That's not…coming from in that wreck, is it?"

"No, it's…" Scott tentatively took a step closer to the front of the train, listening. "It's coming from up here."

"That can't be. First five cars are freight only; they get locked down at the station," someone said.

"Well, ain't nobody lived through this mess," someone else argued, gesturing to the ruined cars. As one, the fifteen workmen who had gathered moved car by car towards the front of the train, listening. As one, they stopped outside the second car. The sobbing was louder here, and heartbreaking to listen to: a young woman in distress.

Scott tugged on the doors, but sure enough the locking mechanism held fast, and they refused to budge. "Somebody got the keys to this thing? There's someone in there." A workman pushed his way forward, pulling a heavy ring of keys from his belt. Someone else handed Scott a flashlight as the doors were pulled open.

Those closest to the door immediately backed away, hands over their faces, gagging. "The _**hell**_ is that smell!" Steve coughed as the heat and the stench wafted into the depot, switching on his own flashlight and directing the beam into the car. "Christ alive, is something rotting in there?" Scott pulled his shirt up over the lower half of his face, climbing into the train car. The two beams of light fell upon sacks of flour, grain, and bags and bags of sugar, but no fruit or meat that could have spoiled to produce the awful smell. The crying was much louder now, echoing around the metal interior of the car.

"Where are you, dear?" Scott called, slowly making his way across the haphazardly stacked sacks, spilled sugar crunching under his boots. "It's alright, we're gonna help you. You're gonna be ok now. Come on out."

Hiccuping sobs, pitiful crying.

Steve's flashlight reflected off of broken glass on the floor as he followed after Scott. Turning, he saw that the doors between the first and second cars had been broken, beaten and…clawed? The long tears in the paint _looked_ like claw marks, but…well, that was just silly. He swung the light back around, and for an instant, there were twin yellow reflections in the dark, movement in the corner.

Steve jumped, dropped the flashlight. It hit the floor of the car with a loud _clang_, and there was a pop as the plastic casing cracked, knocking the bulb loose. The light sputtered and died.

A pause in the crying, a startled gasp. Scott swung his beam back towards Steve for a moment. "Goddamnit Burell, I know it's cheap company crap, but keep a better grip on it, wouldja?"

The crying had stopped.

Scott picked his way through the bags towards where Steve had shone his light a moment ago. "Is that you over there? Are you hurt? Let me help you…"

Something was _wrong_. Steve wasn't sure what, but something was horribly wrong about this. He remained frozen near the broken flashlight, his skin crawling. "…Davis? Davis, I don't think we should-"

"Burell, she's hurt. Who knows how bad. And she's been stuck on this train in the heat with no water for something like 13 hours. Get over here and help me, damnit!"

"Davis, I really don't-"

From behind him in the first car, there was a low rumbling sound, nothing he'd ever heard a train make. A growl. An _angry_ growl.

Scott didn't seem to hear it, or care. He'd worked his way into the corner of the car, the beam from his flashlight splayed across the ceiling for a moment as he climbed over a small pile of ripped sugar sacks. "Easy now dear, I'm gonna get you out of-" He brought the light down, shining it into the corner.

_**SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!**_

The air was filled with screaming.

"JESUS CHRIST, GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFF ME-"

"The hell is going on in there?"

"HOLY SH- SOMEBODY GET IN HERE! DAVIS, HOLD ON, I GOT HE-"

_**RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIII!**_

Four more flashlights clicked on, four more beams of light swung into the car, just in time to see the thing that leapt through the broken doorway and pounced on Burell in a blur of red. There was a sickening crack as he was knocked clean across the car, his head hitting the opposite wall. Somewhere in the back of the car, Scott Davis's screams had been reduced to a wet gurgle, ribbons of blood and flesh spattering across the walls of the car.

The paper-pusher had seen enough. He turned tail, booking it for the stairwell that lead up to the break room where the intercom radio was. Not a moment too soon; behind him there was a patter of bare feet on metal, then concrete, and the hellish wailing had started again over the screams of his coworkers. A rush of air and another animalistic scream, too close, behind him. He didn't look back, throwing himself up the stairs, slamming the flimsy door behind him and grabbing the receiver next to the radio, switching the microphone on. It was only then that he looked through the break room windows back at the track

"Security, get security down here NOW, there's a goddamn massacre on Track 34, we need help NOW! She's…oh god, what's wrong with her _hands_? Oh…" He stopped, fighting down nausea.

Six men, disemboweled on the track. A pale wisp of a girl, bloody hands over her face, running towards the entrance to Shipping and Receiving.

Behind him, the door had quietly swung back open, not having closed properly.

There was a low growl.

_**RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIII!  
**_

* * *

AN: Yes, I'm aware that Left 4 Dead/Team Fortress 2 crossovers, and TF2 + Zombies stories have been done to death. I am also aware that they haven't been done like _this_ before. If you think that's a bold claim on my part, you are quite right, but I intend to prove it, so check back. Also, I'm still fussing with the settings on this thing, trying to get it formatted properly. I forgot what a pain is about that kinda stuff. Expect to see changes with regards to that. Comments and criticisms are much appreciated.


End file.
